Around 2010, I decided to pick up a thread I had let go of in my youth – sailing. The longing for the sea, the wind, and the horizon wasn’t new. It had simply been dormant. Something stirred within me that said: Do it now – or regret it later.
I devoured everything I could find about sailing. I read books, forums, articles – and especially YouTube videos where others shared their sailing stories, mistakes, and magical moments. I didn’t just want to dream anymore – I wanted to act. But first, I wanted to be sure.
I signed up for a one-week sailing course for adults. I wanted to see if the theory held up in practice. And it did. Everything fell into place – knots, wind dynamics, maneuvers. What I had taught myself stuck. I could sail. I was ready.
Treasure Hunt, Galley Mayhem & Sven
Just before buying Torus, I had returned from a few intense months at sea – not as a sailor, but as the ship’s cook aboard a vessel hunting for treasures at the bottom of the ocean. Not pirate gold, but valuable metals from merchant ships sunk by German submarines during World War II. Back then, those cargos weren’t worth much – but today, in the age of electronics, the value of those metals has skyrocketed. Entire companies now track and recover them in a billion-dollar industry.
My job? Cooking breakfast, lunch, and dinner for a crew of around 30. Most of them were from South America – Panama, Colombia – and one or two from Lebanon. It was a vibrant, colorful crew used to life at sea, but not necessarily to someone like me in the galley.
When I first stepped aboard, I was met by a galley in total disrepair – filthy, disorganized, and worn down. It was chaos. I remember shouting at the top of my lungs and throwing pots and pans across the room. It was raw frustration, and the crew barely dared say a word. But the chaos became my mission. I scrubbed, sorted, reorganized – and made the galley my own. Eventually, I became part of the crew – not just as a cook, but as someone they trusted.
Our captain, Sven, was a wild character – the kind of wild you respect. According to him, his father or grandfather had once fought in Pancho Villa’s army. Whether it was true didn’t really matter – it was the story that inspired me. Sven lived as if every day could be his last, and it rubbed off on me. He reminded me that life doesn’t have to follow straight lines. You can veer off. Set sail. Do something unexpected.
When I eventually stepped aboard Torus to live full-time, I brought that experience with me – the freezing steel deck, the oily fish stew, the laughter in the engine room – and, above all, the knowledge that there are other lives out there. Lives waiting to be chosen.
Love at First Sail
Then came the boat hunt. And just like with love – when it’s right, you know. She was a Finfire 33. Finnish-built, well-balanced, 33 feet long, and once a European Championship gold winner. The first time I took her to sea, I knew: this wasn’t just a boat. This was my future.
I named her Torus – a word that means energy. That’s exactly what she became for me – a current of strength, life, and freedom. She was forgiving, responsive, and steady – like a patient teacher. I could push her hard in the wind, and she would still carry me safely forward.
From Weekends to Full-Time Life Afloat
It started with weekend sails. Then longer trips. Nights in quiet anchorages. Morning coffee in the cockpit. But soon a larger thought emerged: What if I moved aboard?
It wasn’t a romantic whim – it was a conscious choice rooted in my desire for simplicity and meaning. I sold what I didn’t need. Left the apartment. Moved aboard. Six years followed. Six years where Torus wasn’t just a boat – she was my anchor, my refuge, my reflection.
When the World Goes Quiet
What I remember most aren’t the storms or the sunsets – it’s the silence. That sacred moment when the sails are set, the engine is off, and the boat glides through the water. A soundless pause where everything is still. Just me, the sea, and the wind.
And sometimes – when the night was velvet and the water calm – I would crawl forward, press my ear to the cold hull, and listen. A glass of red wine in my hand. A simple wine, but in that moment, it tasted like something rare. I listened. To the sea. To the boat. To the world.
And in my mind – sometimes almost for real – I could hear the song of whales. A deep, slow vibration that traveled through the water, through the boat, and into me. As if I were connected to something ancient. As if I was hearing the heartbeat of the planet.
It was magical. A reminder that solitude isn’t the absence of others – it’s presence with yourself.
Life Onboard – and Within
Life on a boat isn’t easy. But it’s real. You solve problems. You plan ahead. You stay humble before nature. And in return, you receive something beyond value: freedom, clarity, and a silent strength.
I learned to distinguish between what I needed – and what I only thought I needed. I learned to breathe with the wind. To repair, maintain, sail – and simply be. I grew stronger – not through achievement, but through presence.
I met people along the way – in harbors, coves, on the sea. Friends, strangers, kindred spirits. We shared coffee, stories, and tools. But more than anything, we shared silence. A glance. A nod. A shared respect for the sea.
When Land Calls – But the Sea Remains
After six years, I returned to land. Not because I was finished, but because life shifted. Yet Torus lives within me. She’s not just a boat. She’s a symbol. A home. A chapter that defined me.
I carry everything with me: the rhythm, the silence, the wind, the strength. I miss it often. The salt. The fluttering sails. The stillness. But it’s part of me now. And the sea – it’s always waiting.
Once, I chose freedom. I chose the wind. I chose Torus.
And that choice changed everything.
By Chris...
Add comment
Comments